by Vi Ly
this lake bristles. navel divulges sea
pools of peach cream. wet dream whispers
seducing tides to lower their arms and surrender. we empty
our mouths to exoskeletons. stargazers. to sticky
spindling wonders. i thought about having children
then got a new iud. learned to bake. gave
each sourdough loaf a little name. wrapped them up in
satin ribbon. rocked them on the windowsill. i said ba lit incense,
and had a premonition the president would die this year.
in the morning the bed is warm from how alive we are and i rejoice
in thawing like we have forever. and
we thaw.
we thaw like no one’s mother is coming home. we are in summer. forever. we are
entangled legs atop mossy sour docks. forever. glitter
fish skip each other like rocks. cast grievances like hexes. aunties swim laps in
silt silk and blow bubbles with muddied lips. and we smoke them.
and we’re weightless. we were wary
of generational anger. how ghosts come back all hungry with
water teeth. lately. i shake
my wet fur and the living room floods. i bellow loudly into teapots
and slam. the. lid. i taint everything possible.
lately. inside of me is a barking crash and i fantasize about the mountain air
that will receive my reckoning one day. how the microplastic will shudder.
how the swallows will flock to my limbs in
great desperate migration. how. the longing quiet
scampered down your neck. mossy flesh crickets. trembling.
since the pandemic ba keeps gifting me pocket knives.
at dinner i raise you half and beg you to humor me. i have too many
mugs. too many lovers. i wear a brave face. i’ve spent many lives waiting
to be fed. i hear aunties glistening. ripe georgia peaches.
may they reach endless meadows. sit first at every table. i
was taught ghosts eat first. mothers nibble at the plates.
today the backyard dirt becomes rivers at my hooves. i
stretch my vinegar fingers into venus and every pie. oh my heart throbs.
all thick steaming sangria. i am
overheated by glittering corpses with shallow skin like lamplights
in sweaty no name warehouses. here is joy. joy as a
ringing in the ossicles so loud—chasms shred themselves and sing
with no surrender. with pupils ripe as dripping persimmons. i
have dreams where i wake up, eat hummus in a thong, and go back to bed.
where there is nowhere else to go but here. i
have fermented this body. painstakingly. in dry ginger. in
brimming kegs of longing. this body. is where you burn
everything. grow everything. root down desire. sift
through a puddle of ashes all sticky. see what animal is
left. panting.
Vi Ly is a Vietnamese American writer and student, currently residing in Bellingham, Washington. She writes in all genres, but mostly poetry, and loves to explore themes of food, dreams, personal mythologies, and family. Her work has been previously published in Bellingham Review, where she was a finalist for their 49th Parallel Award for Poetry.